by Nic Saint
Chapter 9
If she could have, Cassandra would have locked her three granddaughters up in their rooms and forbidden them ever to come out again. Grounded for life! It had been the way when they were little and did something they weren’t supposed to, but now that they were twenty-one, those methods didn’t work anymore. They were young women now, not little girls, and any stupid stunt they pulled went unpunished.
She snipped another dead leaf from her favorite hydrangea bush and felt her heart constrict when she thought about her three girls. They were out there, she knew, meeting with that dreadful Tavish Mildew. Nasty Tavish Mildew. It was all happening again! First that horrible warlock had taken Abra and now he was going to take Edelie, Ernestine and Estrella. And there was nothing she could do about it!
Free will was a terrible thing, especially for the three sisters, who were just about as horrible in their life choices as their mother had been. She’d much rather have preferred if she could have been their guardian all of their lives, protecting them from harm and preventing them from making the kind of stupid mistakes their mother and father had made. Well, the fact that their father had made a mistake was par for the course, of course. He was, after all, one giant mistake himself.
She shook her head and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. She shouldn’t think these nasty thoughts about her late son-in-law. He had, after all, loved Abra dearly. But his shenanigans and bad judgments had cost them all, and now those same bad judgments had come back to haunt his offspring.
Couldn’t she just talk to them? Like grownups? She thought hard, but then decided against it. Even if she told the girls the truth, they’d refuse to believe her. She was simply no match for that warlock and his velvet tongue.
No, she decided after snipping off another leaf and watching it drop to the garden floor. This time she wasn’t going to interfere. Last time she’d saved them from that terrible warlock Joshua, but this time she wasn’t going to do a single thing. If they wanted to go through with this silly warlock hunting, which was just about the stupidest thing in the world for any witch, they were on their own. They weren’t cut out for it, and soon they’d realize it.
But then she got an even better idea, possibly the best one she’d ever had.
Yes, she thought with a smile, let them go warlock-hunting, or demon-hunting, or whatever it was they thought they were doing. They would get everything they bargained for and lots and lots more.
And with a fine smile she rose and wiped her brow again, surveying her domain. The wondrous splendor of her flower garden never ceased to enthrall her, even though she knew it couldn’t last forever. Soon all of this would be gone, she knew, and it momentarily filled her with a profound sense of sadness. After having put all of that work into this place, it had become a beacon of witchcraft, known far and wide. After having tried to live in the shadows all her life, after the great example of Fallon Safflower, one single warlock had managed to destroy the entire Safflower clan. But she wouldn’t let him, not as long as she had a single witchy trick left up her sleeve.
She glanced around and heaved a deep breath, taking in this haven of tranquility and beauty one last time. Then she pressed her lips together. What must be, must be, and what was a house, after all, other than a pile of bricks that could be rebuilt in some other place? And what was a garden other than a collection of micro-organisms? A perfect osmosis of herbs and plants and flowers? It, too, could be recreated, and that’s exactly what she would do.
So she closed her eyes, and conjured up a spell from deep within her witchy soul, a wistful smile playing about her lips. Her spell hand moved almost imperceptibly while she murmured a few words under her breath.
And then the deed was done. No turning back now. Far more important than Safflower House and its legacy were the lives of the three girls she’d taken under her wing. No harm must come to them. She felt a tug in her soul as destiny changed course, and she smiled, for she knew it was finally done.
Chapter 10
“So how do we do this, you guys?” I asked, addressing my two sisters.
We’d left Dipper Park and were on our way home. Tavish had given us some pointers on how to draw out the warlocks we were going to tangle with, and now all we had to do was choose a spell to draw out the nastiest ones so we could start ridding this world of evildoers wherever they lurked.
The task we’d set ourselves was enormous, and I felt its weight sit heavily on my shoulders. I’m not usually the kind of person who thinks in terms of destiny and fate and all of that stuff, but like Tavish said, this was what our parents wanted. So we were going to do it, no matter what.
“I don’t know,” said Ernestine slowly, that thought wrinkle cutting a deep groove between her brows again. “It seems to me we should probably pick a symbolic place and perform a grand act of witchcraft to draw out the kind of adversary that is worthy of our powers.”
“We need to go downtown,” suggested Estrella, “pick some popular landmark, and perform the biggest act of witchcraft this town has ever seen. If that doesn’t draw out the powers of darkness, I don’t know what will.”
“Great idea,” I said, thinking hard. “What landmark should we choose?”
“We could make the Brooklyn Bridge float in the air,” suggested Estrella.
“Or we could light up the Empire State Building,” said Ernestine. “Turn the entire building into one gigantic Christmas tree.”
“But it’s not Christmas,” Estrella said.
“Who cares? We have to stand out.”
“Or why don’t we make Falcone Tower disappear?” I asked, remembering David Copperfield had made the Statue of Liberty disappear. The particulars were a little fuzzy, but it had been a show-stopping moment.
“Whatever we do, we need to do this big or go home,” stressed Estrella. It was obvious that her show biz ambitions were staging a big comeback now.
She wanted this to be as big a spectacle as we could make it. We all did.
“Don’t you think this might attract the wrong kind of attention?” asked Ernestine now, always the worrywart in our small band of three.
“Well, since it’s attention we’re trying to get, I don’t see how any attention can be the wrong kind of attention,” I said.
“No, I mean, the media and stuff. If we make the Brooklyn Bridge fly or light up the Empire State Building like a Christmas tree—”
“Or make Falcone Tower disappear,” I interjected stubbornly.
“—we’re going to be on the cover of every newspaper in the country, not to mention on every news bulletin. Wolf Blitzer is probably going to have us on his show, and so are Megyn Kelly, Matt Lauer and Keith Olbermann. Do we really want to draw all that attention to us? We’ll be famous!”
“Oh, God, yes, yes, yes!” muttered Estrella, closing her eyes with relish.
It was an aspect of the matter I hadn’t considered. Ernestine was right. If we made Falcone Tower disappear we’d be famous. Like, David Copperfield famous, probably. On the other hand, how could we perform magic in public and not draw attention? This was simply part of our mission. We’d be the first witches in the history of witchcraft who’d get airtime on national television, and judging from Estrella’s expression of enchantment, she was perfectly ready to go that route. I wasn’t so keen myself, but if that’s what it took to fulfill our destiny… “There’s no other way,” I said. “How can we possibly do magic in public and not draw attention to ourselves?”
“I don’t know,” said Ernestine. “I have a pretty bad feeling about this.”
“Well, I don’t,” I said bravely. “We have to trust Tavish. He’s giving us a message from our parents and if this is what they envisioned for us, we need to do this and trust that they knew what they were doing.”
“And that Tavish knows what he’s doing,” added Ernestine.
“Besides, didn’t he promise to have our back? And so will Gran. They won’t let any harm come to us.”
“We don
’t need Tavish,” said Estrella decidedly. “And we don’t need Gran. We can do this. We’re twenty-one now, and in full possession of our witchy powers. Didn’t you hear what he said? We were born with these powers, we can use them whenever and however we want. Anything we wish will come true, I can feel it,” she said, holding out her hands and wiggling her fingertips.
Tiny yellow sparks shot out from them, and we all watched in fascination. Finally, after all these years of abstaining from witchcraft—or at least trying not to use it too much—Tavish had given us carte blanche to do as we pleased. Gran had always forbidden us to use witchcraft outside of the house, claiming we were too accident-prone and likely to cause damage. Now, for the first time in our lives, here was a man—a warlock no less—who’d told us not only to use our powers but to use them with absolute abandon.
“I like it,” I decided, also holding out my hands and wiggling my fingers. Small red sparks shot out of them. “Come on, Ernestine,” I cried. “Join us!”
“Yeah, and if things go bad we can always cast a spell that will make people forget what we did,” said Estrella for Ernestine’s sake.
With a sigh, Ernestine also held out her hands, then raised them high over her head and sent a stream of blue sparks shooting straight into the air. Strel and I quickly followed suit and soon the dance of sparks joined. Mine were red, Strel’s were yellow and Stien’s were blue, and together they turned into a shower of gold shooting straight up into the air.
The three of us skipped along the street, giggling and wrapping ourselves in a cloud of magic, feeling more and more giddy. All we needed now were three of Fallon Safflower’s brooms—brooms we’d never been allowed to use—and we could fly away and paint rainbows across the sky!
We were more than a little ecstatic at the prospect of finally coming into our own. We’d pursued the wrong kinds of careers. We weren’t supposed to be culinary chefs, pop stars or top lawyers! We were supposed to be the most famous witches in the world!
When we finally arrived home, we stormed into the kitchen, fully expecting to find Gran, ready to admonish us again. Instead, the kitchen was empty, not a soul in sight. Ernestine’s eyes fell on a note taped to the fridge.
“Hey, you guys!” she called out. “Listen to this.”
We gathered around as we read the little note. ‘Stepped out for a bit. Fridge is fully stocked. Trust you won’t make a mess of things. Love. Gran.’
We stared at one another. “Gran is gone?” I asked, surprised.
“Looks like,” confirmed Estrella, twisting the note over in her hands to see if Gran hadn’t left an addendum on the back. But there was nothing. No indication where she’d gone to or for how long she planned to stay away.
“I guess she needed a little vacation,” concluded Ernestine, and we thought nothing more of it until much later, when I wondered how we were going to launch our big mission without Gran standing in the wings to lend us some much-needed aid and support. Estrella might think we didn’t need Gran anymore, but I felt oddly insecure without her all of a sudden.
Could we really do this without her? Shouldn’t we wait until she was back? But the steady stream of hubris was still coursing through our veins, and we soon decided that we didn’t need Gran. She was an old woman, after all, and probably tired of taking care of us for all these years. We were big girls now, and no longer needed a chaperone. We could do this, and we would, and no one was going to stop us from finally fulfilling our destiny!
Chapter 11
Chazz Falcone was holed up in his office on the top floor of Falcone Tower. He took another bite from the sweet bread Johnny had picked up at Brown’s and closed his eyes, savoring the delicious taste. He might be one of the world’s richest men and used to the best food the best chefs in the world could provide, but he also had a sweet tooth, and simply loved his daily ration of pastry. It was not something he’d tell his ghostwriter when and if the time came to write his autobiography, but it was true. Whether he shopped at Bell’s Bakery, the emporium his future daughter-in-law ran in Happy Bays, that small and wonderful hamlet on Long Island, or Brown’s of Brooklyn, a good piece of pastry could do wonders to his notoriously mercurial mood.
“I need a slogan, boys,” he rasped to his team. Johnny Carew, officially his dog handler, was also part of his election campaign team, along with his campaign manager Jerry Vale. The two former crooks formed the heart of his team, which now also consisted of his son Rick Dawson, star reporter for the New York Chronicle, one of the biggest newspapers in town.
“A slogan, boss?” asked Jerry. The pale and gaunt rat-faced man might be his campaign manager, but so far he hadn’t done a lot for him, apart from setting up the big launch of his election campaign tomorrow morning.
He growled, “Yeah, a slogan. Something we can print on all the posters and put up on the website.” His eyes drifted to the ceiling of his opulently decorated office. The place was a festival of gold and marble, just like the French kings of old, and had been inspired by a visit to Versailles, years ago. “Something like… ‘I like Falcone.’ Or ‘Falcone is the one.’”
“What about ‘Chazz got pizzazz?’” asked Johnny, idly stroking Chazz’s Pomeranian Spot 2. “Or ‘Chazz is shit?’”
“The shit,” corrected Jerry. “Or what about ‘Falcone’s no morone?’”
“You’re a moron!” Chazz grumbled.
“Morone doesn’t exist, Jerry,” Rick interjected.
“So? Why can’t we invent a new word? We’re the president of this country, ain’t we? We just invent a new word,” Jerry said with a shrug.
“You…” Rick closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t do that, Jerry. The president doesn’t invent new words.”
“Why not? We’s the president! We can do whatever the hell we wants!”
“No, we can’t.”
“Yes, we can!”
“I like that slogan,” muttered Chazz. “Too bad it’s already been used.”
“What about ‘Leave no dog behind?’” Johnny asked, rubbing noses with Spot 2. He loved the mutt, Chazz knew, which was one of the reasons he’d hired Johnny in the first place. A dog lover could do no wrong in his book.
“Leave no dog behind?” he asked. “I don’t get it, Johnny.”
“Yeah, and what about all the cats out there?” Jerry argued heatedly, still not recovered from his ‘morone’ faux-pas. “Are you implying we should leave them behind? Or what about giraffes, huh? Or pandas?”
“‘Leave no panda behind,’” Chazz muttered, testing the words. Not bad.
“Pandas are a minority, Jer,” Johnny said. “And so are giraffes.”
“So? We’re a president for the people and by the people,” said Jerry.
“Um, dogs and cats and pandas and giraffes aren’t people,” Rick said.
“So? Don’t they have rights?!” Jerry cried. He pointed a finger at Rick. “You’re a chauvinist pig, Ricky. Admit it!” When Johnny chuckled, he turned on him in a flash. “What?!”
“Rick’s also a minority,” said Johnny between two chuckles. “He’s a pig.”
“Pigs are not a minority,” Rick said, always the voice of reason. “There’s plenty of pigs in this country. Sixty-eight million, to be exact. If you compare that number to the seventy million dogs and almost a hundred million cats they’re not exactly a minority. Pandas, yes. Pandas are definitely a minority.”
“Cut it out!” Chazz growled, feeling that his authority as future commander-in-chief was being undermined by this silly discussion.
“What about ‘Make America big again?’” Johnny suggested.
Chazz’s eyes dropped to Johnny’s paunch. “I’d say you’re big enough already,” he grumbled. His eyes swerved to his son, arguably the smartest person in the room. “Ricky!” he bleated. “I need a slogan! Something that pops!”
“‘Chazz we can believe in!’” said Jerry, snapping his fingers.
“Huh?” asked Chazz, then scowled at his c
ampaign manager. “Shut up!”
Rick frowned at his dad. “Let me think about it,” he said, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. Chazz had roped Ricky into his campaign kicking and screaming, and still the young reporter seemed reluctant to fully commit himself to seeing his father elected into the highest office the USA had to offer. Almost as if he didn’t want him to become the next president.
As a businessman of a certain age, Chazz felt it was time to leave his money-grubbing days behind and start giving something back to the people of this great nation. He’d become one of the richest men in the country, and now, having run out of challenges, he’d decided to become top dog as well.
That way he’d be able to create some great tax breaks for himself and his many businesses, and add some much-needed prestige to the Falcone brand. What better publicity than to occupy the highest office in the land? The Falcone brand, now already a top ten brand, would soon become number one. Across the globe! It was the best PR campaign he could think of, at a bargain bottom price.
But first he needed a great slogan. So he got up and ambled to the window, gazing out over his domain, that stretched all the way to the Hudson River and beyond. The island of Manhattan, only a small part of his dominion, lay basking in the sun, Central Park an emerald jewel in his personal crown.
“What about this,” he asked, turning around abruptly and facing his small campaign crew. He held up a hand, waving his cigar through the air like a wand conjuring up images of a world where Chazz Falcone was the supreme ruler. “With Falcone at the helm, all will be well!”
“Helm and well don’t rhyme, boss,” said Jerry. His eyes had narrowed, and he looked like a man who was suffering from extreme constipation.
“Yeah, Falcone at the helm underwhelms,” added Johnny.
And Ricky? He merely shook his head, looking pained.
“No?” he asked, reading between the lines. “Not a good idea?”
